


Elderly (Wo)man Behind The Counter In A Small Town

by cousinrayray



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, C137cest, M/M, Memory Wipe, Oral Sex, Smut, amnesiacMorty, college-age Morty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cousinrayray/pseuds/cousinrayray
Summary: Morty travels cross country hoping to find himself. A story about good intentions, and loneliness, and maybe about inevitability.AKA Of all the diners in all the towns in all the world...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this story for ages. Was gonna finish it all then post as one big chunk, but I'm drunk today and feel like making it chaptered and posting a bit of it today. I'll probably sober up and regret it, but oh well.
> 
> I fucking love this song guys. It's Pearl Jam, and it's great. This was gonna go as part of the songfic train but it grew and I love it so it'll get a proper standalone fic post. It's mostly written, will probably be around 7-10 k when finished. 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> UPDATE 6/29/18- I have commissioned art from the massively talented DocRick and it is GORGEOUS jfc. Here's a link while I wrangle how to hardcode it into the fic. [Tumblr Link](http://doc-rick-a106.tumblr.com/post/175378133590/intrepid-amnesiac-illustration-commission-for)

The bell chimed as Morty pushed open the door to the small, worn, but encouragingly clean-looking roadside diner, the best (and apparently only) eating establishment in this tiny town he had the misfortune to be stranded in. 

He walked in with shoulders slightly hunched, trying not to be intimidated by the unabashedly curious stares of the diner’s few patrons, mostly tired, older men in tired, older clothes. His throat tickled with nerves and he swallowed down the urge to clear it. The clicking of the drooping ceiling fan was the loudest sound.

All he needed was something to eat and hopefully information on a place to sleep, or he’d be roughing it in his beat up Taurus, currently parked at the gas station/repair shop. He told himself to stop being stupid and straighten up and act like a normal fucking person. These people didn't know or care about him, everything was fine. It would all be an interesting experience once he was back on the road, traveling away.

He approached the pale green counter and then he couldn't help it, he did clear his throat nervously. 

“Yeah, yeah I hear ya. That you Dennis? Really- you really outdid yourself today, huh, got kicked out of Gulpers before- before it's even three, y-you drunk asshole.” A gruff, sarcastic male voice and the clatter of movement emanated from the kitchen area, obscured by the dividing wall. 

Morty coughed, thinking he probably should just keep quiet and wait, but the thought of being mistook for someone else made him fidget and he said, “H-hah, I- sorry, I-”

The socially inept response was cut off by a cacophony of harsh sound, like several pots and pans had just fallen to the floor. Morty flinched and his nervousness ratcheted up through the roof as the noise was followed by complete silence. He darted a quick look behind him. The diner patrons were still watching with solemn curiosity. 

Then he heard something from the kitchen area, what sounded like a muttered argument between the older male voice and a nasal female one. It went on for a bit before he caught “F-fucking Christ, Hannah, y-y-you can't even handle this one goddamn thing, w-what do I even pay you for? It ain't to make out with your p-pencil-dick boyfriend in the fuckin’ cooler.”

Morty heard the female voice mutter something uncharitable about said pay, or maybe about the man in general, and then he caught a quick flash of a wrinkled, sour face through the window in the dividing wall. 

The muttered argument resumed in lower, more intense tones. Finally a 30-something year old woman flounced out, face stormy and growling darkly to herself, “fuck outta here, fuckin’ old bastard, fuckin’ 3.50 an hour, kiss my ass,” as she stomped out of the diner and disappeared down the street. The old men watched her leave impassively. 

Oh god, what the hell was going on? How was it that Morty managed to make everything weird? He shifted from foot to foot as he waited, wishing there was somewhere, anywhere else to get a bite to eat. 

Finally he heard a harrumphing sigh and an elderly man came out from the kitchen. He was wearing scruffy, slightly baggy blue jeans and a white t-shirt with a grease stained off-white apron slung haphazardly on top. A bandanna was tied around his head, tufts of iron-blue hair poking out crazily in the back. He had the most unfriendly visage Morty had ever seen. 

“W-w-what do you want?” 

The voice was harsh, a stretched cord of tension running through it. And Morty stood, frozen, not just because it was a bizarrely hostile way to be addressed, but because the most intense déjà vu he had ever experienced was washing through his body. Or, at least, that was the closest he could call it. Like a dream he couldn't quite recall from a lifetime ago. 

His eyes widened as he struggled to understand what was going on, and the man stilled too, his expression hard and vaguely threatening. Bright, sharp blue eyes bit into him, heightening the feeling until Morty sucked in a breath and blurted, “H-have we met?”, blushing already at the stupidity of the question. 

“No,” the man deadpanned, his expression unyielding, and Morty blushed further. 

But the guy, the cook or whatever he was, was honestly kinda freaking him out. Morty swore he recognized his face from somewhere, those large, baggy eyes and deeply set-in lines. And the man seemed sort of aggressive. 

What if Morty recognized his face from the news? What if this was some insane criminal or something, and Morty had just spooked him? Enough, he chided himself. It was just some cranky old guy and Morty was over-tired. 

“S-sorry, I, uh, it's been a l-long day drivin’ and I- I guess I'm, uh, a little wrung out,” he said shaking his head, pulling up a self-conscious smile.

It withered under the cook’s continued stare, which now seemed to hold a bit of cold confusion, as if Morty was being an unintelligible moron, which, perhaps he was. Morty’s mouth worked, and he glanced at the door, wondering if he should just leave and go hungry tonight. Maybe someone else, someone less… stressful would be working tomorrow. 

“So… what can I getcha?”

The gravelly voice startled Morty and his head swung back around. The cook’s body language had relaxed somewhat as he leaned against the back counter, but his face was still a bit rigid, like Morty looked or smelled offensive. 

Morty made himself speak, “Ah, um…” He realized suddenly he had no idea what he actually wanted to eat. He blushed again. 

“Uh, c-can I have a grilled cheese, a-and fries. P-please.” He looked slightly to the left of the cook, willing himself to stop being so flat-footed. “Oh,” he shrunk, then made himself add, “And, um, no- no salt on the fries, please, I know it- it's sort of, um, picky. I-I’m sorry.” Could he make himself seem any weirder? But he hated salt on his fries, he always had to ask, though he wasn't sure if the apology was making things worse or better. 

There were several beats of silence.

“... Right,” the cook said drily, the corner of his mouth twitching. He stared some more at Morty and Morty really wished he wouldn't, though he guessed he couldn't blame him. It's just that it was difficult to breathe normally with those eyes boring into him. 

He slumped slightly when the cook turned away without another word and walked off behind the kitchen wall again. He climbed into a barstool a little shakily. Low blood sugar, that was probably his issue. That explained all of the weirdness, that and a rude, old fry cook. 

 

He was starving, or this was the best grilled cheese and fries in the entire world. The cook had produced them promptly and without any hostility, and had even taken the liberty of adding a Coke unasked, which made Morty lift an eyebrow, then shrug. It was what he would have asked for, anyway, if he hadn't been so flustered. 

He felt increasingly stupid and embarrassed as he ate his good food unmolested, even if that face continued to nag annoyingly at the edge of Morty’s mind. Plus, he thought the cook might still be staring at him from time to time. A few customers came and went and the man was brusque with them all, though not nearly as rude as he had been to him, it seemed to Morty. 

Eventually Morty realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach that he still had no idea where to sleep, so he tentatively raised his voice in the direction of the kitchen.

“Hey, um, do- do you know where I can find a, uh, motel or- or somewhere to get a room for the night?” 

The cook moved into view of the window. His eyes went to Morty’s face and Morty felt, damn it, another frisson of nerves.

“Not really. This pl-- this town doesn't exactly have a- a thriving tourist business.” 

He raised an eyebrow as if to challenge Morty’s presence, and Morty stumbled out the same embarrassing explanation he had given the gas station owner/mechanic about driving cross country, only to have his engine start producing ominous noises, then smoke, so when he had seen the rusted sign proclaiming a town was ahead, he hadn't had much choice but to stop. The cook listened silently throughout it all, his face impassive. 

“So, uh, I guess I'll just bunk in the old piece of junk,” he finished with a laugh, trying to seem uncaring.

“G-guess you will,” the old man replied. He started to move back out of view, then stopped, and though his profile was still, Morty thought he could hear a tiny, aggravated huff. “I live in the place next door to this rat-trap.” Morty glanced uneasily down at his practically licked-clean plate. “There’s a couch in the living room. Clean enough.” His long arms moved as he talked, looking down at his work and not at Morty. But then he glanced up and shrugged. “J-just an offer,” he said in the flat tone he seemed to favor. 

Morty again felt frozen, this time in pure surprise, all those thoughts about escaped criminals and murderous lunatics flashing back to the front of his mind. Then he felt even greater shock pour through his body when he heard his voice reply, as if of its own volition,

“S-sure. Th-th-thank you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be a little sloppy, let me know about any egregious errors. I'm all over the place, sorry for being awol.

The house was worn and dusty looking like everything else in this town, where from what Morty had seen the average building was about a hundred years old, and the average person not much younger. 

But the inside was normal enough, reassuringly devoid of any obvious hints of crazy or criminal inclinations. There was a tan carpet covering the floor, the living room wood paneled and sparse but lived-in, a saggy, comfortable-looking couch, a tiny tv, a mostly-full bookcase, a coffee table with overlapping rings stained into it, a gray cat curled up on top a battered recliner all suggesting an ordinary, if maybe lonely existence. 

“Beer?” the old man (‘Bert’, he had told Morty while closing up the restaurant, and Morty had twitched slightly at the inexplicable wrongness of it) asked as he walked to the small linoleum and Formica-clad kitchen, flipping on the light and opening the fridge. 

Morty blinked, surprised. He was twenty one, but few seemed to believe it and he was always getting hassled for I.D. Maybe this guy just didn't care. “Ah, y-yeah, t-thanks,” he said, voice warbling uncertainly. 

Bert walked over with a of beer in each hand. He stood in front of Morty neutrally, as if offering him the choice of which one to take, thrusting the one on the right forward after Morty reached hesitantly for it.

He muttered at the cat and pushed it off the chair, taking its place. Morty watched it stalk off as he dithered, then realized the only reasonable thing to do was join Bert and sit on the couch. 

He sat and listened for the hiss as he slowly cracked the beer open, reassuring himself by the sound that it wasn't tampered with. Which was absurd, if he was crashing on this guy’s sofa there’d be ample opportunity to kill him in his sleep, if that was the angle here. He hazarded a glance at the man and thought he saw a brief amused look, like he knew what Morty was thinking. But it was gone in a flash, the old man's face returning to neutral as he looked off into space, and Morty was enough of a headcase to have imagined it entirely. 

He sipped his beer, the reality of being expected to make small talk in this stranger’s house unfurling before him. God, what was he doing here? What on earth was he thinking? He picked nervously at the fabric of the sofa, then caught himself and stopped. 

Bert tipped his can and drained it, finishing with a belch, then got back up out of the chair with a grunt. Morty blinked. That had been fast. He went back to the kitchen and returned with a six-pack that he set down on the coffee table, tearing one free for himself.

“So… I, uh, I guess this is where I ask ‘what’s your story kid?’” Bert muttered with implied air quotes as he opened the can. He sounded a little awkward, himself, his eyes only occasionally moving towards Morty, and it made Morty relax a bit. It must be just as weird to have a stranger sitting in your living room, knowing you were responsible for inviting him under your roof. 

“Well, um, l-like I said, I was driving cross-country. K-kind of a college graduation present to myself. Wanted to see- see the sights, you know? Before settling down and everything.” This was a lie. It was a I’m-having-a-life-crisis-and-fuck-senior-year-or-graduating-at-all present to himself, but there was no need to be that specific. 

“Kinda- eurrp, a- a weird route, if it takes you out to this, this ass end of the world,” Bert grunted in reply, wiping his mouth. Morty couldn't figure out why it seemed rather quaint, the apparently habitual belches and spittle peppering the conversation, instead of gross. 

He finished his beer and grabbed another, leaning back into the couch. He smiled a bit sheepishly. “Y-yeah, well, it's gonna sound kinda dumb, but, I... I wanted to try and do the ‘road less traveled’ kinda thing, you know? Like, a- a meandering route to nowhere in particular. F-for character.” 

Bert snorted openly into his beer, muttering “Wow” with that bizarre bluntness and Morty smiled and said with a good-naturedness he didn't understand,

“Alright, I know, I know, i-i-it's stupid. Like something’s more meaningful just, just ‘cuz less people do it. It's an empty sentiment. But I-I'm kinda- I'm a bit of a boring guy,” he chuckled at himself, passing the beer from hand to hand. “And even doing- even gaining a meaningless little bit of experience that- to set you apart is better than nothing, you know?”

Bert’s brow lowered as Morty talked, like he was intently absorbing the boy’s words. But as they ended he just snorted again and shook his head and Morty smiled ruefully. “It _is_ stupid. I know taking a deliberately difficult route won't- isn't gonna make me a better person. It's, it's ultimately unimportant.”

Bert looked at him with a slightly cocked brow. “Well, yeah, it- it’s definitely stupid. But the world is full of idiots who don't understand what's important. At- at least you recognize you're one of them.” 

Morty laughed out loud. He took a few more sips of his beer and quipped, “So what is important?

“F-fuck if I know,” Bert burped without missing a beat. “I'm just a fry cook. Y-you're the one with the college degree here, kiddo.”

Morty smiled and felt a peculiar lurch at the appellation, a faint echo of the déjà vu from before, but it didn't prompt the same anxiety as earlier. So the guy seemed familiar, what of it? It probably happened to people all the time, some weird quirk of the brain. And it made this all feel more comfortable, somehow, than it surely otherwise would. 

Bert smirked at him, a lopsided affair that crinkled his eyes in a way that looked almost friendly. Morty’s breath caught as that lurch reappeared, this time a more familiar sensation located low in his stomach. Shit. Maybe he had missed a more banal explanation for why he felt so strange around this man, why he had been willing to sleep in his house. 

He felt himself immediately become more self-conscious as the realization sunk in, shifting uneasily in his seat. He was an idiot not to have considered this earlier. After all, he had found himself drawn to men much older than himself before, men of a certain build and look, which this guy sort of fit, though he overshot the ideal age by a good decade, by the looks of it, and had a general haggardness Morty couldn't say he was into. 

But those blue eyes had such laser intensity whenever they looked at him, like he was being studied, like they were doing right now, and the more he thought about all this the more awkward he felt, but before he could regain control of his wandering mind he felt a blush stain his cheeks. He was still, damn it, staring at Bert, and this was not good, but he couldn't stop looking. 

The beer in his hand reminded him of a way out of the feedback loop of awkwardness he was swiftly trapping himself in and he took a hasty gulp, nearly choking on it, and turning his head away. 

He had only ever once actually indulged his little kink, if that's what you'd call it. But that guy had been like fifty, not seventy, or whatever Bert was, and more importantly, he hadn't been a vehicle-less, stranded guest in the man’s home. He wasn't that big an idiot. He made himself take a deep, hopefully subtle breath. Everything was cool, and he wasn't about to ruin this surprisingly pleasant evening with his nonsense. 

When he had shoved the intrusive, inappropriate thoughts far enough away that he felt his blush recede, he hazarded a glance at Bert, wondering if he had noticed Morty’s little fit. 

The faint tinge of red at his ears suggested, yes, he had, and somehow knew something of its cause. As did the way he was now looking away from Morty, at the carpeted floor. Damn it, damn it, damn it. 

“S-so, uh, you're- you're not from around here right? You uh, y-you don't have the accent,” Morty stuttered, desperate to regain the strange easiness that had been there before. 

Bert took a very long drink from his beer, his expression distant, then belched. “N-euuugh- nope. I'm from all over. Been more- more places than I can count. Settled here a couple- a l-long time ago.” 

Morty studied him. ‘Why here?’ was on the tip of his tongue, but something told him not to press. Instead he deflected to himself. “I’d love to do that,” he said earnestly. He clarified at Bert’s raised brow, “I-I mean, travel, you know, experience things from all around the world. It sounds so, so freeing, like, I could learn so much more about myself, be-become so much more than myself, through all these- these new environments, new cultures and people and shit, y-you know?” He suddenly realized he was rambling in the way he was sometimes inclined to when slightly tipsy, and stopped, chagrined. 

Bert gave the closest thing to an actual smile Morty had seen from him all night, though his eyes were shuttered, “Yeah, M-Marvin, I know.” 

Morty shivered at the wrong name he had impulsively told the man was his, at the faint shamed interest that stubbornly lingered in his belly, at the undeniable strangeness of the whole day. He licked his lips nervously. He should stop drinking for the night. 

Before he could think of a new thing to say, Bert drained the remainder of his can, tossed it on the coffee table, and abruptly stood. “I’m callin’ it a night, kid. G-gotta open up the shitty spoon tomorrow,” he muttered, rubbing his face. His fingers were incredibly long and thin, Morty noted, then chastised himself. The old man belched as he walked towards a door in the hall, then opened it and shut it behind him before Morty had a chance to say anything. 

A mixture of relief and embarrassment moved through him as he shifted to lay down on the couch. He felt certain he had driven the man away with his blushing and probably obvious stares. For a man of few words, Bert was… a lot. Almost too much. 

He tugged down the afghan that was slung over the back of the couch, wrapping it around himself and turning to face the wall of polyester. There was a smell imbued in the plaid-patterned fabric, some unknowable mixture of spice and faint sourness. Morty inhaled deeply, not understanding why it was so comforting, or why it lulled him to sleep so improbably fast.

 

The next day Morty woke to an empty house, Bert apparently already back at work. It surprised him to be left alone in the man’s house, but he supposed it fit with the overly-trusting small town clichés he had heard about. He resisted the urge to snoop. It would be a poor way to pay the man back for his hospitality, and simply laid the afghan back over the couch before putting on his shoes and walking to the front door. 

He wondered if he should lock it before he shut it behind him, then shrugged and figured locked doors weren't a big priority in a town with only a few hundred people in it. 

He set out towards the two-pump station where he left his car, eager for news. It was a little under a half mile from the diner, but thankfully the walk past far-flung houses and flat, near-featureless land seemed less ominous than it had the evening before, the cornflower sky contrasting nicely with the tan scrub of earth. He was in a pleasant mood today, optimistic, even.

That optimism was dampened by the infuriatingly unconcerned response from the mechanic, a slack-jawed moron if Morty had ever met one, who chewed on a damp cigarette as he informed Morty that apparently the Taurus needed a part to be repaired, and said part had to be fetched from a larger town several hours from here, so the car wouldn't be fixed until midday tomorrow at the earliest. Morty wasn't sure he believed him; it definitely sounded like the sort of lie an unscrupulous mechanic might say to line his pockets. Plus Morty was an outsider, unlikely to ever come this way again, and this repair shop was literally his only option. With that in mind, the man would would almost be stupid not to try and fleece him. 

Morty just did his best to smile at the pock-marked asshole, who was surely laughing internally at him, and said he'd be back tomorrow. He turned and walked away, wondering what on earth he was going to do in this tired, melancholic place for another day. 

He spent a few hours in the town library, a mausoleum of marble and dust with more empty shelves than books, dodging the suspicious looks of the old spinster running it as he perused the modest selection, finally deciding on an old battered copy of _The Sun Also Rises_. He honestly had never liked the book, but considering how his pretentious journey of soul-discovery had landed him in this mess in the first place, Hemingway seemed an appropriate punishment. The librarian’s scowl deepened with every passing hour he spent reading on the moth-eaten sofa that was the only seat available, until finally she kicked him out with a screech that the library was “for town-folk only”. 

Jeez, was everyone here unfriendly? 

Bert wasn't so bad, he reminded himself as his feet turned towards the diner. Grumpy, for sure, and more than a little odd, but there was something to the old man, something besides Morty’s irksome, degenerate impulses, anyway. 

The little bell attached to the door to the diner chimed as he stepped through, same as yesterday. The customers were a handful of somewhat grim-looking men (He wondered vaguely what it was that they did. Farm? Mine? Nothing?) same as yesterday. And same as yesterday, the fan was the loudest sound, though today he was honored with a rustle of newspaper pages being turned and a raspy cough or two. It seemed not much changed day by day in this town, if at all. 

But today when he sat at the counter he was greeted by the woman who had stormed off, Hannah, he vaguely remembered her being called. The resigned way she took his order (he asked for grilled cheese and fries, same as yesterday, figuring "when in Rome") seemed to suggest she was still unhappy with her job, but Morty supposed she had little choice but to come back. He doubted the job market was booming here. 

He told himself it was beyond absurd to be disappointed that Bert was nowhere in sight. But when she placed the slip containing the order up on the window, a wrinkled hand quickly snatched it up, then that lined face came into view, sour as ever, and he felt his stomach lurch with some kind of anticipation.

“Y-you still here, huh?” Bert demanded, brow furrowed as if to chastise him for still existing. 

Morty gave him a nervous smile, fairly certain at this point that the unfriendly greeting was just his way, and not an indication that he was annoyed or angry at Morty. 

“Yeah, the mechanic says the car’s gonna need another day to be fixed. So h-here I am,” Morty said with a shrug. He felt his smile threaten to widen into a grin, he didn't even know why, just that suddenly the prospect of spending more time here seemed almost a good thing, if it meant he'd get to interact with Bert some more. But it was probably overly presumptuous of him to think the old cook would invite him to his house for a second night. A guy like that probably relished his privacy, wouldn't want to deal with an annoying squawking young asshat like him lurking around all the time. 

Bert stared at him with an inscrutable expression. Morty waited patiently, examining him right back. He thought he might be getting better at decoding those blank looks. This one almost seemed like it might be holding back some kind of positive emotion. Maybe.

“I'll have to buy more beer,” he finally mumbled with a grimace. Morty nodded too-eagerly, his own face, he was certain, now made embarrassingly goofy with poorly-concealed joy. Bert looked at him some more, and Morty felt more confident that, begrudging words aside, he was happy, to some extent, to have Morty around. There was something like fondness in that gaze, just a whisper, and it made Morty feel like he had accomplished something very important. 

He ducked his head down to stare at the green counter before he could blush and make a fool of himself. He heard Bert grumble to himself and turn away, back to the sizzling grill. 

“Hannah! G-get your ass back here and clean up this lettuce you left fucking everywhere! What the hell ya think this is, that- that filthy sty of a whorehouse you call home?”

“One day I'm going to kill him,” Hannah told Morty conversationally as she finished wiping the counter and turned to go into the kitchen. 

“No you’re not, Hannah,” Bert's voice sailed out unconcernedly, “I-if you did how would you ever afford all those- all those specialty miniature condoms for Dweezil?”

“His name’s _Dwight_ you fuckin’ ass!” Hannah yelled as she disappeared around the corner. 

Morty couldn't help it, he laughed. 

One of the old men behind him coughed at the mirthful sound disrupting the stolid tone of the diner, and shook his head disapprovingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters are gonna be pretty uneven in length, guys, just fyi. This bitch is still growing on me. I never claimed to have any idea what I'm doing, lol.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I'm late! Sex scenes have a bad habit of growing rampantly on me. So again, this is a little less polished than I'd like. But on the plus side, hooray, there's finally smut!

Bert told him to go on ahead to the house while he swung over to buy the booze. After Morty walked into the empty abode he went searching for a bathroom, where he stood in front of the mirror fidgeting. He knew he would want to hook up (he felt embarrassed at the juvenile phrase, but there it was) with Bert tonight. It was inevitable that he'd try, he had never met an older man he was half as inexplicably drawn to. And the idea of it fit irresistibly with the devil-may-care, wild-and-free outlook he could acknowledge with some humor was the intended goal of this whole trip. 

He supposed the reflection he saw looking back at him would do. His face was mercifully clear of the acne that continued to occasionally plague him, his muscles were lightly defined. He had taken up running while at college, enjoying both the escape it offered and the admiring glances from men and women alike that his increasingly fit body drew. 

Of course, he wasn't sure that Bert felt at all similarly, but Morty felt bolstered by that faint blush he was sure he had seen last night, and, honestly, by the fact that the sharp old man hadn't just kicked him out when Morty started making an obvious ass of himself. He tidied his hair with his hands, then wondered if Bert would notice and know exactly what Morty was playing at by first glance, and the thought made him feel paranoid and foolish, so he fitfully ruffled it back up again, which made him feel more foolish. Then he made himself leave the bathroom before he could think about it any longer. 

He returned to the living room and sat nervously on the couch. The cat jumped up beside him and he petted it, welcoming the distraction. The house was uncomfortably quiet. He wondered if this was what it was like every day for Bert, this solemn stillness. Well, the man did have a tv, Morty reminded himself, surely that helped fill the silence somewhat. He became self-conscious of his posture and tried to make sure he was sitting normally, not at all nervous and dorky, but not lounging or anything like he was trying to be seducitive or something. Just, normal. 

He jumped at the sound of the front door opening, tensing automatically and ruining all his careful efforts of not-posing himself on the couch. 

“Hey kid,” the old man grunted by way of greeting, plastic bag swinging on his arm as he shut the door behind him. 

“H-hey, Bert,” Morty echoed inanely, then winced internally.

Bert paused and glanced him over, his eyebrow raising, and Morty immediately felt himself begin to blush, though he couldn't say why. Fuck. The cat sprang away with a “mrrow”, abandoning him. 

Bert ambled over past the armchair and sat heavily on the couch. Morty blinked away his slight surprise over the closer proximity, though the man was still a respectable distance away. 

Then he produced not only a six-pack of beer but a bottle of bourbon from within the bag, and Morty couldn't help but blink again. It certainly seemed like a bit of an escalation. 

He watched Bert as the man twisted away and reached down beside the bottom of the couch, emerging with a empty glass jar that he peered into briefly before cracking open the bottle and pouring a generous amount of bourbon into it. Then he set the bottle back down and leaned back into the couch, taking a solid gulp and gazing neutrally forward. He seemed in no hurry to make conversation. Or to offer to find Morty a glass.

Morty shifted, uncertain of the mood. He reminded himself not to be an idiot and grabbed one of the beers. He cracked it open and was just taking a sip when Bert suddenly spoke up with a “So-” and it startled Morty so much he choked a bit on the beer.

He wiped at his mouth, spluttering, his eyes wide with embarrassment as they went to Bert’s face and he definitely saw a smirk there before it faded into a look of bored, you-are-a-moron patience. 

“So what’ja major in?” the old man reiterated dryly after a few moments, and Morty’s eyebrows rose at the random banality of the question. 

“Uh, e-ecology,” he replied. “Well, I mean, I started with linguistics, th-then I switched junior year to ecology. Had to, uh, take a few summer courses to make up the extra work for it and stuff.” Why the hell did he bother with saying all that? He glanced at Bert, wondering how his boring answer to the boring question was received. The man just took a drink and said, 

“Well, why did ya- did you bother to change then, if it was such a pain in the ass?”

Morty’s brows furrowed, this time in confusion. But he shrugged internally and took another sip before launching into the argument/story he had told several times before, detailing his various reasonings on the merits of the one major over the other. 

Oddly enough though, Bert seemed genuinely interested, and when Morty was done he asked another similarly boring question about his life, and so they continued. Morty answered them all with bemusement. 

But it was nice. It almost felt almost like old friends catching up, though the flow of information was largely one-sided, and Morty couldn't really say they were friends, after all. Eventually, an hour or so and two or three beers later, the topics had gradually become more personal, as had his responses. He told Bert about the time he had got caught smoking weed in his dorm room. The R.A. had threatened to call the actual police on him and Morty had cried because he was a stupid freshman and believed him. 

He told Bert about how his parents got divorced and were now both casually seeing other people. He told him about his first boyfriend, who cheated on his current partner to be with Morty, and then got caught cheating on Morty in turn, the big wheel of karma kicking both their asses. He told him all sorts of nonsense, becoming more pathetic-seeming with every answer, he was sure, and Bert drank it all in as eagerly as he drank the bourbon. 

Somehow they got to Morty’s senior year, and at that point, underneath the pleasant beer-haze he was cultivating he felt a frisson of disconcertment, because by senior year Morty had started to hit his breaking point. This year at school was when the rest of his life had started to yawn before him, when he had given into existential panic, and there weren't as many stories he could put a funny, self-deprecating spin on. He was deeply embarrassed by it all, it felt like such a self-involved, childish, intangible thing to struggle with, and he wasn't sure Bert needed to hear about it.

So he tried gamely to present an edited picture of those last months of school, fabricating stories and parties he had gone to. But it was like Bert knew he was no longer being honest. He didn't say anything, but his gaze got even keener, and his mouth turned down slightly, like he was disappointed in Morty. Finally Morty’s words dried up and he fidgeted and looked at his hands. 

Despite himself, he felt an urge to try and explain the crushing smallness, the insignificance that finally overwhelmed him that last night he spent on campus, staring at the night sky full of stars he couldn't see, wondering if he'd spend his whole life feeling this way. Empty. Wrong. Alone in a crowd. Every cliché that he was supposed to shed when he outgrew his teenage years, but had somehow found himself stuck with. Boring, broken Morty. He hadn't managed to change. And he was terrified he'd never be able to. 

And suddenly, he found himself telling these most pathetic of woes to this stranger that didn't feel like stranger. Bert listened solemnly with a furrowed brow, that simple non-judgemental silence so gratifying. When Morty finished he felt physically lighter, like he could breathe easier as he waited for Bert's response.

Bert didn't disappoint. He looked at him for a moment or two with an indecipherable expression, then began with, “School isn't a- isn't a place for intelligent people.” It had the sound of a well-worn truism.

“It- it dulls the mind, dulls the senses M-ouuugh-Marvin. You're- you're better off without it.” He splashed more of the bourbon into the jar and slugged it back, then set it down with a clatter, as if to punctuate that pronouncement. 

“Better off t-traveling all over- o-over the world, and shit. Meet some people, do some drugs, f-fuck some broads. Y-you're right about, about that one. It’ll help you grow.” 

Bert had started off looking towards Morty if not directly at him, but by the end of it his gaze drifted away from him. Then he shook his head, Morty wasn't sure what at, and his breath caught when those blue eyes shifted back to meet his. 

“The worst thing you can do is stay in one place too long.” 

Said without the usual stutters and belches, the warning made Morty’s skin prickle. He nodded uncertainty, wondering for the umpteenth time just who this guy was. Bert looked tired all the sudden, every inch of his years. By all rights it should have made Morty desire him less, this worn-out, elderly man, but it didn't. His hand twitched as his mind cast back to his initial plans for the night.

Bert gave Morty a look as soon as the thought occurred to him, and shook his head again with a snort as if he could read his mind (Morty was half-convinced at this point that he could). He drained the rest of his jar of bourbon and refilled it in one smooth, absent motion. Morty took a companionable gulp of his beer. They sat quietly for a few moments, then Bert barked out a short laugh at apparently nothing, and Morty had no idea what was funny but he grinned too, relieved to leave the seriousness behind. 

As the evening wore on and they both got steadily drunker, Morty could feel the mood easing further, could see Bert's bony shoulders sit looser and looser on his body. And he could swear that the looks the man gave him became warmer, that the smiles became slightly more flirtatious matches to his own as he shifted closer and closer on the couch. 

On one hand, he wanted to pat himself on the back for his social skills, that it seemed he was actually, steadily on his way towards well… seducing the man, for lack of a gentler term. At the same time, however, he felt a nagging sense that Bert was perfectly aware of what Morty was slowly but surely attempting, was merely humoring him, for whatever reason suited the man. 

It didn't matter, Morty would take it regardless. He wasn't even sure of his own motivations, whether it was the challenge, the ennui, or just simple loneliness that compelled him at this point. He was never going to see this person again, he reasoned, and worst came to worst, he'd spend the rest of the night in his car, embarrassed but on his way out tomorrow regardless. 

So he watched with excitement he veiled as much as possible as Bert pounded back swig after swig, as his face became steadily more flushed and his words flowed quicker, more animatedly. He told Morty the most outlandish story he had ever heard about stealing “merchandise” from a powerful man and having to flee halfway around the world, hopping from place to place as he sought desperately for another buyer, the first one apparently having succumb to “J-just the craziest combo of drugs, M-M-Marvin, like this guy died balls-deep in whores and booze and shit you wouldn't beuugh-believe. Sh-shoulda known better than to do business with ‘em, but fuck if he didn't have the best- euuurp- the best shindigs in the galaxy”.

Morty laughed and listened wide-eyed, not knowing how much of Bert’s ludicrous tale could possibly be true, but willing to consider that the mysterious man, obviously too sharp-witted to have always been a simple cook, could have experienced all sorts of crazy things in his long life. And he enjoyed the way Bert spoke, his bizarre inflections and turns of phrase. 

In his inebriated state the hint of a dangerous, exotic past only served to bolster Morty’s determination, his eyes lingering more and more fixedly on Bert's lips as he talked. He knew Bert noticed, he saw the man's eyes flicker, his hand tighten on the glass, his expression falter a split second or two as he seemed to consider his options even as he continued speaking. 

When his eyes landed directly on Morty’s, burning with an intensity that was disconnected from the loose posture of his body, the casual tone of his voice, it was close enough to permission, to Morty’s mind at least, to take the plunge and lean in and kiss him, halting him mid-sentence. 

Bert's lips were dry and cool, and unresponsive for a harrowing, brief eternity. Morty’s slightly shaky hand came up to rest lightly on his lined cheek, and the old man exhaled sharply through his nose. Then he began to kiss back, opening his mouth to Morty’s shy movements. Morty moaned, elated and surprised despite himself to have gotten this far, and kissed more boldly, his tongue probing inside. 

He swung his leg over Bert's, and when he wasn't immediately pushed off, when instead Bert’s hands came up, one to steady the small of his back and one to rest on his thigh like they belonged there, that was all he needed to know. 

But apparently that was not quite all Bert needed to know, because suddenly he pulled back and gave Morty a particularly searching look, as if examining him for any signs of doubt. It confused Morty. Why should Bert care? Maybe he was just worried Morty was too drunk to know what he was doing, which was commendable, if arrogant of him. Either way the look persisted until Morty cocked a brow and met his gaze, trying on a sardonic, worldly look of his own. He wasn't some trashed kid that didn't know what he was doing. 

Then he leaned in and kissed down the side of the man's pale neck, and felt the hands around him tighten. Bert’s head lolled and he made a sound deep in his throat, then mumbled, “Oh, you s-stupid little shit” in an unmistakable tone of fondness and desire.

Morty laughed to himself and thought at the very least, it was a more accurate sweet nothing than most. He arched into the hand tracing lovely circles on his back with a calculated moan. He was so unreasonably excited, he felt his heart hammering as he reached down with both hands to play at the waistline of Bert’s pants, one hand toying with the button. He gathered his nerve, looked up and gave Bert his best seductive smile. 

All he got back was a wry, unimpressed eyebrow cocked in response, but somehow that was perfect, that was exactly how Bert _should_ respond. That meant yes. He opened the fly, pulled down Bert’s pants and underwear, and put his hand around his cock, delighted to find him already semi-erect. He wasn't sure exactly how this would proceed with a man Bert’s age (it seemed uncouth to ask at this point). He would love to get fucked, but he didn't know if that an option. He decided to just start with a blowjob, and proceed from there. 

He scooted back and knelt before Bert. He wrapped his hand around the base of his cock and began giving it steady but gentle tugs, while his mouth came down and licked at the head. Bert gave a soft exhalation, a quiet, unconscious sound; it made Morty want to smile. When he sucked the cock between his lips and began blowing him in earnest, the noise deepened into a groan. 

Morty sucked firmly, knowing how it hollowed his cheeks nicely. He glided up and down the shaft, tongue swirling and laving. He let the fingers of his other hand drift down to tug lightly on the sack below. In short, he was pulling out all the stops he knew. This was an experienced man, it wouldn't do to give an underwhelming performance. 

And by the sounds Bert was making and the steadily increasing hardness of his cock, Morty wasn't doing a half-bad job. His groin throbbed at the thought of affecting such an untouchable, worldly figure, of having someone so much older and wiser than him between his jaws and shuttering under his ministrations. He moaned enthusiastically around the cock in his mouth and felt it stiffen further.

He looked up and Bert’s face was flushed and contorted with pleasure, his eyes fluttering closed as a hand wound itself with surprising gentleness into Morty’s hair, not tugging or pressing, just carding through it to come to a rest at the nape of his neck. It felt tender and wonderful, sending a shiver down Morty’s spine and into his dick and he let out a whimper, this one with more feeling than artistry.

He wasn't sure how long he continued to suck Bert off, he got lost in listening to every hard-won sound he earned from the man, feeling every twitch in his mouth and in the muscles of the bony thighs he was nestled between. Suddenly it occurred to him that the dick in his mouth was certainly hard enough to do business with, and he pulled back with a wet sound, licking his swollen lips as he glanced up at Bert. 

The old man looked sweaty and disheveled, his breath coming in huffs. His eyes were dark and glittering and he gazed back at Morty like he was looking at a vision. Morty felt his stomach swoop, and something in the back of his mind trembled, a half-formed ghost that was scarcely perceived and died in an instant. 

It knocked him a bit off balance, so that his voice was less confident than he wanted it to sound when he said, “I’d, um, I'd really like it if you'd- if you'd fuck me, Bert." 

Bert actually laughed at him, which, wow, what an ego-booster. “Yeah, I- I gathered as much, M-Marvin,” he drawled teasingly, and Morty wondered if he had imagined the slight emphasis on his fake name. He must have.

“You- you're not particularly subtle when you’re- with my dick buried down your throat,” he grunted as he stretched, his erect cock bobbing invitingly in front of Morty’s face. Morty gave him a tentative smile, which turned confused when Bert pushed him back and stood from the couch, groaning as his joints popped. 

The old man snorted at his expression and added, “Well I-I ain't fuckin’ you on the couch. Uncomfortable as shit, that, that damned thing, c’mon, use your brain.” His voice ended with an admonishing sigh as he toed off his pants and stood, naked from the waist down and full of attitude, like no one could understand the aggravation and idiocy he was subjected to on a daily basis. Morty smothered his grin and supposed that was likely the case. 

He got up cheerily, and followed Bert’s bare, wrinkly ass through a hallway door into a small, unadorned bedroom. He spared a quick glance around and took in the drab furnishings. Bed, dresser, table, whatever. Only the bed really mattered, a modest full-sized mattress that was an undeniable step up from the couch.

He hastily began stripping off his own clothes as Bert sat on the bed and removed his shirt, looking completely unconcerned to be lounging naked in front of the much younger man. Morty loved that; the only other old guy he had been with had been much less self-confident in his appearance, hiding beneath the sheets and in dim lighting. This was perfect, Bert was perfect, someone who didn't give one shit about anything he didn't want to. 

Morty wondered, as he practically threw himself at the man, if that kind of careless power could be fucked into him. He couldn't wait to try. 

He halted his heated kisses to Bert's scarred torso, mouth opening and closing as his brain stuttered around the awkward question that had popped into his mind, and then he was blinking as a tube of lube was produced from nowhere and slapped into his hand before he had even managed to ask for it.

He began to prep himself, laying back on the bed propped on one arm with his legs spread open, arching his back in a way he knew made him look wanton and desirous. Bert watched him for several moments with hooded eyes, absently fisting his cock, then growled, “L-let me,” and moved forward to push Morty’s fingers away and replace them with his own. 

Morty gasped at the feeling of those cool, slender fingers slowly curving into him, coming to land unerringly and begin moving in circles around his prostate. He swore under his breath as pleasure lit up his body, his legs drawing up and spreading wider almost instinctively. Bert responded by working a third finger in and Morty groaned with shameless need as they began to thrust in and out, stretching him open with an efficiency that stole his breath. 

God, this guy was playing him like a fiddle. He already felt like he could come from this alone. The wonders a lifetime’s-worth of sex will do, he thought with a grin, and congratulated himself on having bagged such an exceptional specimen of a man. He ground back down on the fingers as best he could, shuddering. 

“Bert, I-I’m ready, I’m s-so good to go, man,” he piped up in a hurried, warbly voice, suddenly a little too close for comfort. Bert smirked at him and withdrew his fingers, then slung one of Morty's legs over his shoulder, grabbed his cock, and began to push in, deliberate and confident. Oh fuck, this was going to be fantastic. 

Morty's eyes screwed shut and he let out a long, appreciative groan at the slow burn. Bert didn't stop until he was fully seated inside him, and the fullness was toe-curling and perfect. Then he began to move back and forth in sure, steady thrusts, Morty fighting back the urge to touch his dick as that would surely bring an early end to this. 

Bert deepened his thrusts, and Morty’s chest vibrated with suppressed sound as the cockhead teased past his prostate with each movement. He redoubled his effort to focus himself, to just relax and enjoy the pleasure pooling into his groin, let it churn without immediately overwhelming him. It wasn't a battle he was going to win for long, it felt so good. 

Then he let out a whimper of frustration and relief as Bert began to miss his prostate, deliberately it seemed, his strokes becoming irregular and unpredictable, hard, soft, fast, slow. It ruined the momentum that was building in Morty’s belly, kept him keyed up but unable to go anywhere as Bert leaned in, opening him wider. They continued on and on, time stretching like taffy as Morty helplessly tried to rock his hips and force Bert into a more brutal rhythm, and Bert stalwartly refused to give in, quirking a smile at Morty's neediness. 

Eventually Morty’s arousal built up inside him again despite Bert's tactics. He began to feel like he was teetering endlessly, and was ready to break and touch his cock, chase down the bliss that kept eluding him. At that precise moment when his hand twitched and betrayed his intentions, Bert’s hips swung violently forward and Morty cried out at the sudden burst of sensation against his prostate. 

His hands clenched into the bedsheets as Bert set up a swift, deliberate pace, no longer tormenting him. Wave upon wave of aching warmth piled up inside him, so wondrous after such a slow build. He felt his body start to tremble, felt the warmth inside him begin to brim over. As he soared upwards he felt Bert’s hips stutter against him, felt the pulse of the old man emptying into him. 

When Morty heard the hoarse cry that accompanied the orgasm he finally tumbled over the edge with a grateful moan. His semen shot out of his untouched cock in pulses as he whined and spasmed at the intensity of feeling. It was so perfect it was truly surreal; the boneless pleasant glow settling into him felt unreal and too-real all at once. 

Bert shifted and slid out of him with a sigh, leaning back to rest on the bed. As Morty recovered his breath his eyes drifted to Bert’s mottled, sweat-drenched complexion and blissed-out, lax expression. He felt his mind lurch unsteadily with some kind of amorphous anticipation, like confusing a dream with reality. Surreal. Unreal. Too-real. He shook his head dazedly to clear away the thoughts, doped weariness starting to trickle into him, and laid down next to Bert. 

Fuck, that guy was a good lay. That might have been the best sex Morty had ever had, and it came from some cranky, redneck frycook old enough to be his grandfather. 

In a fit of cheekiness he told Bert as much, grinning wickedly, and was delighted when the man seemed to get a kick out of the back-handed compliment, chuckling with dry but genuine humor. It occurred to him that they were both still naked, and that they hadn't even used a condom, and neither thought caused him much alarm. He felt cozy, crazy, content. 

But he felt a pang when Bert muttered instructions to grab a blanket if he needed one, then turned away to go to sleep. He didn't want the old man to go to bed, he realized. He couldn't say why, or what else he had expected, it just suddenly seemed that, wonderful as the evening and the sex had been, something now felt missing. The idea of sitting awake and alone while Bert slept was not at all what he wanted. 

Morty glanced at the door. The thought of sleeping away from Bert on that lonely couch was even less appealing. He sighed at himself and his eternal nonsense. He was so good at making up problems. 

For a while he laid in the bed trying to keep quiet. Once he figured Bert had fallen asleep he reached down and carefully tugged the blanket over both of them, and without thinking overmuch about it he scooted as close to the man as he dared. The heat from the two of them filled the shared space underneath the blanket, and then, finally, Morty was able to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, this is obviously going to be a bit over 10k at this point. Oh well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated holidays, folks! Again, I'm sorry, I'm an ass, this chapter took way too long to post. Also I'm sorry for the delay responding to comments- each one is a precious gift, and in time I will respond to them all with love, I swear. 
> 
> On the bright side, last chapter is written, and will be out in less than a week!

The next morning, Morty woke up naked and alone in a stranger’s bed. Well, a near-stranger, anyway. 

For a few minutes he just stared at the faintly cracked, off-white ceiling lit by late-morning sun, and reflected on the combination of satisfaction and melancholy moving through him. That odd let-down sensation from the night before was still present, like something more should have happened, but hadn't. He had done something wild and bold, at least by his standards. Something life-affirming. Why, then, did he feel emptier and more restless than ever? 

He sighed and pushed himself up, suddenly awkward at the thought of just lounging around in Bert’s bed. As he gathered and put on his clothes he took in the space around him. The room was tiny: barely enough space for the bed and two pieces of furniture it contained. It felt… dry, somehow. Stale and little-used. The milky walls looked barren and forlorn. 

He could see a thin layer of dust on all the surfaces. The end table was on the opposite side of the bed, the side Bert had slept on, and as Morty blinked the tiredness from his eyes he noticed strips where the dust was missing, a thin rectangular line with a small dash above it, as if something had sat there next to the lamp and recently been moved. 

He looked away, finished putting on his pants, then hurried out of the bedroom. Lingering was making him nervous.

He couldn't find one of his socks, but it didn't matter. He walked over and grabbed his shoes, then took an unexpectedly mournful look at the modest interior around him as he sat on the couch and slipped them on. The cat leapt up and rubbed itself against him and he stroked it fondly. 

His car was supposed to be fixed today. There was no reason for this sudden reluctance to go. There was absolutely nothing in this town, after all, and he had a whole country to explore. Still, all of a sudden the entire rest of the country seemed to hold less appeal. 

He gave the cat one last pet, stood, then made himself walk out the door. 

 

Morty strode determinedly towards the repair shop, trying to out-march his nerves. The day was already punishingly warm, and his face shone with sweat by the time he reached the shop. He could see his Taurus parked off to the side, and to his relief, after a swift, mostly-painless exchange with the mechanic he was given the keys and the go ahead to get the hell out of dodge.

Morty stuck the key in the ignition and turned it with faint trepidation. The engine whined and spluttered reluctantly, its typical behavior, then came to life. Shoulders relaxing, he smiled jauntily at the greasy, overall-ed asshole and drove out of the lot. 

He wasn't at all surprised to find himself driving towards the diner instead of directly out of town. He had to see Bert before he left. It was only right, after all, to thank the man for his hospitality, maybe offer to pay him back for the beers. He tried to ignore the quiet dismay tightening his lungs at the thought of saying a permanent goodbye to the old guy. 

Maybe he could visit someday? Would Bert like that? Or at least, would he mind terribly? No, that was absurd, that was absolutely beyond bizarre to even consider, and he wouldn't embarrass himself by even hinting at it to the man. 

He pulled up to the diner. Somehow when he was ensconced inside the metal cocoon of a functioning car, the place looked less like an intimidating bastion of sullen, small-town culture, and more like just an aging, dull eating establishment. For the first time he noticed the cracks in the cinder blocks that formed its foundation, the patch in the roof that looked to be filled with some kind of tar, uneven and lumpy rivulets staining the asphalt shingles. He realized there was no signage, nothing to be found anywhere on or in the building; as far as he could tell the diner had no name. He supposed it didn't matter when it was the only one around. 

That would make it harder to look up afterwards, if he chose to, his brain murmured at him. He shook his head at himself as he exited the car. There would be no attempts to look it up, or look Bert up or anything. He was supposed to be moving forward in life. This whole trip was about gaining some momentum and keeping it. 

Despite himself, he was so distracted with anxiety that it took him far longer than it should have to realize Bert wasn't actually in the diner. He stood there for at least five minutes just watching a very frustrated and harried-looking Hannah hustle back and forth behind the kitchen window before it clicked, and he said nervously, 

“So, um, n-no Bert today, huh?”

Hannah froze mid-hustle and turned towards him. “No,” she replied slowly, eyes narrowing as she gave him a look of overt suspicion. “First time he’s ever missed a day, so far as I know.” 

She was waiting for a response, Morty realized panickedly. But then she made a sharp sound through her nose and hurried away again, long before anything came to mind. 

Oh god, what had he managed to do?

His unease was unreasonable, out-of-proportion, he knew. Something was very wrong, or he had done something very wrong, somehow. It didn't make any sense, but the feeling wouldn't leave. Nothing had felt quite right since he woke up, no, since he came to this place, and it was only getting worse. He left the diner in a state of agitated distraction, oblivious to the stares that followed him on the way out. 

He got in his car and started it on reflex, then felt like a doofus when he pulled it out of the diner lot and drove the mere yards that separated it from Bert's short gravel driveway. Whatever. He _was_ a doofus. If there was one fact that had always rang true, it was that. He pulled up, parked his car and got out, moving quickly to the front door. 

He stuck his head in and called out -“Bert?”- then stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him. He surmised in an instant that Bert wasn't in the front rooms. He walked over and glanced down the short hallway to the open and empty bathroom, then looked at the mostly-shut bedroom door. What if the old man was in there sleeping?

He pushed open the door to the dim bedroom. Bert wasn't there. Morty's stomach twisted. He looked down at the mussed bed and felt an insane, almost unbearable urge to crawl back into it, to wrap himself in the sheets and blankets and wait for Bert to come back. That was what _should_ be happening. Then he wouldn't feel so upset. He took a step back, shaken. What the hell was wrong with him? Where was Bert? 

He tried to take a few deep breaths and pull himself together. It was difficult in the stuffy air, it was making his head ache. His eyes drifted from the bed to the end table, to those two little lines of dustless-ness. Like a picture frame, he thought absently. One line for the bottom of the frame, and one for the little support. 

For a few seconds he stared blankly, mind whirling around nothing. Then, without knowing quite what he was doing, he stepped around the bed and walked up to the end table. He bent over and tugged open the drawer, stopping with it half-way open as if that lessened the breach of privacy. 

Inside were myriad detritus, little papers, a pack of cigs, rubber bands, condoms. Heart hammering in his chest, he rifled through it all, faintly horrified at himself. And then he found it. He felt the hard rectangular edge shoved in the back of the drawer. His hands were trembling as he drew it out and turned it over. 

At first, he didn't know _what_ he was looking at. It was a picture of slightly younger Bert dressed in a dirty white lab coat, slacks, and a blue shirt, at a…. costume party? Some kind of party. But some of those people, it didn't make any sense, those couldn't be costumes, there were things with too many arms, or eyes, or made of pink goo. Bert had a crazy-looking orange monkey-cat thing hanging from his shoulder, it and him both grinning at the camera.

Morty’s head was pounding so painfully it was hard to see. Was that- was that his family _living room??_ Oh god, what the fuck was going on? He felt like he might be sick.

He noticed that Bert was leaning off towards the edge of the picture, like something had been cut off. Hands fumbling so badly he almost dropped it, he turned the frame around and removed the backing, revealing a folded-over section of the photograph. 

He was salivating heavily now, like he was about to vomit, heart and head throbbing in a quick tempo and his vision pulsing in time. Somehow he knew what would be there, and he didn't want it. He didn't want to see it. There was more fear flowing through him than he had ever felt before, sick, panicked dread. Swallowing convulsively, he unfolded the photo. 

There he was, smiling at the camera, leaning against the old man’s other side. 

There was an almost audible snap as his wobbling mind finally came loose from its moorings, and tipped over. 

Morty stumbled backwards, eyes unseeing, wondering if maybe he was having a stroke, if he was dying in the house of this stranger that he suddenly knew with awful certainty wasn't a stranger at all. 

Rick. 

Rick Rick RickRickRickRick. “Rick motherfuckin’ Sanchez” he heard a voice in his head say clearly amidst the senseless deluge of sounds and images that slammed with a roar into his head. Snapshots flew by in a whirl, pictures moving too fast to comprehend. Rick the mean old man, Rick the impossible. Rick bursting into his bedroom, tugging him through a circle of green light into places that shouldn't exist. Rick the psychotic jerk laughing at his broken legs. Rick running for his life, leaving Morty behind, saving him. Rick getting shot by lasers, fucking lasers, Jesus Christ, and shooting right back. 

It was an onslaught. It was agony. He dimly registered his legs crumpling beneath him, picture falling with an unheard thump. He saw the two them chasing after mayhem and death like they were in some kamikaze pact, terror and exhilaration and laughter in fucking outer space, and aliens and robots and his family. And Rick the maniacal ringleader, facilitating it all, king of madness. 

Nothing made any sense, had Morty gone insane? Was this a seizure, an aneurysm, was he actually dying right now? He swallowed huge gulps of air in a panic, hands digging into his legs. 

But still it wouldn't stop, the images- the memories, he corrected himself with growing horror, kept spilling into him. Rick laughing, Rick crying, Rick vomiting, Rick snarling with feral hatred as fantastical beings fell before him, Morty standing right next to him filled with bloodlust of his own. More emotions than he would ever have imagined feeling, and felt more deeply than he would have thought a person ever could, shoved their way through his mind. 

Yellow lightning fear, true I’m-going-to-die terror echoed through him with a crack. It was followed by virulent hatred and bone-grinding sorrow and wild joy like frantic wing-beats and most improbably of all, painful, abiding love. Love, actual and real, a soul-deep attachment for a capering demon in an old man’s skin that had shaken Morty’s life to pieces, then remorselessly rebuilt it in its own image. 

“A fucked-up god”, he heard his own voice say, and shivered. His grandfather. His own personal Jesus. Oh god. Oh no. He had really done it now, he had gotten himself in the shit. 

Morty felt the pain in his head ratchet up higher and wondered if it was exploding, then realized his hands had dug so hard into his hair his fingernails had cut his scalp. His body was like a distant concept he had forgotten. He registered he was curled over, keening and crying, trying his best not to faint. Just as he thought he would anyway and welcomed the relief it would bring, the pressure in his brain began to lessen and the torrent of information slowed to a trickle. 

Morty blinked frantically, and breathed. The inside of his head was in manic bloom, a desert in a flash flood succumbing to unstoppable bursts of greenery, made unrecognizable. For a few terrifying moments, he had absolutely no idea who he was.

Then a very peculiar mixture of relief and grief rose to the top of the receding murk in his mind as fundamentals began to slot into place. His life had felt wrong and false because it _was_ wrong and false. His fears of being nothing, of always being nothing but a boring shell of a person were unfounded. It seemed likely now that he was in fact the most interesting and unique young man on the planet.

But what a terrible inheritance it was, years of pain and fear, an existence so unreal it brought its own profound isolation, its own loneliness. This Morty was battered and burdened, full of secrets and responsibilities and experiences that he could faintly sense had driven him to the brink of insanity many, many times. He shuddered with anxiety, with the weight of it all. 

And then he was laughing, hysterical giggles pouring out because for years he had been sad for being a boring schmuck, when actually he was _supposed_ to be sad because he was a, a fucking space terrorist accomplice or something. Only, he had forgotten. Oops. 

He felt super-saturated, bulging at the seams. He felt like he had lived forever, like he was more than human. He felt old. There was a good chance that even if he wasn't totally certifiable already, he would go crazy from the shock of it all.

But this had been taken, no, _stolen_ from him, he reminded himself. He had been torn away from his very self and left to flounder and fail. Furthermore his whole family had been altered, his mother, Jerry, Summer, all living the same lie he had been. None of them remembered any of this, he was sure, there was no way they were that good of actors. No normal person could just act like all of that madness had never happened. They couldn't know.

He wracked his pounding head for the answer to why. It was like sifting through a dictionary that had no discernible order to it, and where half the definitions had been partially scrubbed out. There was a fleeting sense of something, some tragedy, guilt and fear and desperation, and he felt his heart speed up as he tried to seize it, but it was jumbled and slipped away from him and with a groan of pained frustration he gave up. 

One thing he knew, one overarching pattern that he now intuited as a new law of the universe- Rick was undoubtedly responsible in one way or another. Rick had to be the reason. There was anger present at the thought, but it was distant, thunder over the horizon. He was too wrung out to focus on any one feeling right now. 

After what felt like ages doubled over, panting in the bedroom, he stood up and staggered back into the living room on weak legs and collapsed on the couch. With shaky breaths he began to gingerly poke at the new terrain in his head, trying to begin the overwhelming process of prodding the pieces into some sort of order. 

Then it hit him, far later than it should have, perhaps, but given the circumstances he was willing to cut himself some slack. He had just had sex with his grandfather. Oh Jesus fucking Christ. Shame flushed his cheeks, then he blinked. 

Wait a minute, Rick had fucked _him_. Was it possible he didn't know, that he too was a victim of whatever had happened? 

No. 

Morty’s mind answered him in an instant. There was no way. Who else but Rick would have the means or inclination to wipe all traces of his presence from their lives? Sure, maybe some alien could, but that didn't feel likely. It was almost certainly Rick that did it. And Morty felt equally certain that Rick wouldn't have left himself in the compromised mental state he had left his family in, it didn't fit with the egotistical vibe permeating his memories of the man. 

And there were hints from what his mind was already labeling as his “false life”. Rick had acted like he was seeing a ghost ever since Morty showed up: the initial commotion, the stares, the questions. All those questions, so earnestly delving for any and every detail of Morty’s life. All the things Rick had missed. Morty shuddered. 

So, Rick had known who he was, known this was his grandson. And he still let Morty have sex with him.

Morty didn't know how he felt about that. He had an idea of what he surely _should_ feel, but his mixture of confused emotions was definitely not matching up. And like a gong going off inside his head, he suddenly knew why. His eyes bulged.

Shit. They had done it before. He could see bits and pieces of it, memories of having sex with his goddamn grandfather, holy shit. A folio of furtive actions in a tiny cluttered bedroom, or in the junky ship, all luridly painted with lust and adrenaline. Their echoes gave him a pleasant shiver, old and new memories working together underneath his rational, reeling mind. 

Fucking hell, he may be more interesting that he had thought, but he was also _way_ more of a pervert. 

There weren't many pieces of those, however. He supposed he should be grateful- though in reality he just felt vaguely sad- but also, he wondered why that was the case. Perhaps that… facet of their relationship had begun towards the end. Maybe it was even the reason why Rick had erased himself? Having sex with one’s underage grandson was surely a regrettable decision, even for someone as out-there as Rick Sanchez. 

There was no way to know yet. Nothing was in order, and it would take ages to sort through the mess in his head, which was now pounding more fiercely than ever as if to discourage him from trying. All he could do right now was wait for Rick to come home. 

It might be wiser to slink away and flee from his grandfather rather than risk confrontation, but there was no choice. All the new information was about Rick, and even amidst the still-settling confusion in his mind, Morty knew that he had been utterly transformed by the return of those memories. He had been made, if not entirely whole, then fairly certain of what was still missing. Rick was what made him who he was. Morty had to see him. 

He realized he had no idea what was going to happen when that occurred, and he recognized that underneath the confusion and fear and anger and no small amount of dread, part of him was basking in that delicious uncertainty. His life had just been profoundly altered, and it might change again in a short while. There was no telling. 

Fucking finally. 

Morty sat back on the couch, and waited for his grandfather to come home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, I gotta say, I'm a little sad to see this one finished. To be honest, I could have tinkered with this until the sun burned out, because part of me feels like it's still not quite there, but I eventually made myself stop. 
> 
> I hope it's a satisfactory ending for you guys. It might not be, lol, and I apologize if that's the case for anyone. This has been a very interesting fic for me, lots of tones and themes to try and get at. Thank you so much for reading, everyone. 
> 
> Enjoy.

The front door finally opened. Bert- _Rick_ \- froze at the sight of Morty perched on the couch and halted halfway through the doorway. Then, not taking his eyes off Morty, he slowly shut the door behind him. 

The look on his face confirmed Morty’s suspicions in an instant. Rick remembered perfectly. And likely now knew he had been caught. Morty had had time to try to plan, think of questions to ask, intelligent ‘hows’ and ‘whys’. He had imagined how he would best surprise Rick with his returned memories, imagined the satisfaction of his look of shock. He felt annoyed at being robbed of that moment, annoyed at the emotions that flooded in at the sight of him, gumming up his brain, annoyed at the tremble in his voice as he swallowed and simply said,

“H-hey, Rick.”

To the man’s credit, there wasn't more than a single extra beat’s pause before he responded, 

“Hey, Morty.” 

Rick’s voice was hoarse, as if from lack of use saying the name. His face was a myriad of painful things, all under the control of rigid tension. It was so strange to Morty, how much more this person now meant when looking at him. The memories did odd things, made him seem both bigger and smaller than he had been when he was Bert the mysterious fry cook. 

It bothered Morty how old he looked. 

“Been a while, kiddo,” Rick said as if to strive for casual, but his voice was all wrong for it, stretched and unsteady. He was still across the room, largely unmoving except for a slight shuffle from side to side, and Morty realized that Rick was likely drunk. His throat hurt, and then he realized that he was about to cry and that would be a complete disaster, so he shook his head and dug his fingernails into his palms. 

Then he looked up and saw Rick gazing at him so intensely, his body leaning forward as if he wanted to spring at Morty. To Morty’s fascinated horror, those blue eyes were shining with unspilled tears of their own. He felt a strong, crazy desire to run into the man’s arms, sob into his shoulder, and even more crazily, it seemed like Rick might welcome it. Mercifully, Rick stayed in his place by the door, a safe distance away, and Morty successfully reigned in the unmanning urge.

“S-so, skipped work, huh?”

Rick snorted, like he appreciated the irrelevance of the question. His lined hand ran jerkily through his hair as his expression began to pull itself together into a semblance of its normal flatness. “Yeah, needed a- a mental health day,” he said wryly, a lopsided smirk briefly quirking the corner of his mouth.

“I can imagine.”

Now that the moment was here, Morty felt utterly frozen. The enormity of the conversation he was about to have was crushing him. He took a shaky breath, looking down at his hands while Rick stayed silent, waiting for him. He decided to begin somewhat obliquely. 

“W-why are you here, Rick?”

“‘Cuz I live here, dipshit,” Rick responded boredly without missing a beat, arms crossed in a defensive posture. Morty blinked, and felt the urge to smile. He sighed instead, and tried again. 

“Why do you live here? What are you doing here in this- in this town, in f-fucking nowhere, man? There’s a whole big world out there.” He spread his arms in gesture. 

Morty wasn't sure if Rick was formulating an answer to the questions he had asked, or the questions he had really meant: _“Why did you do this to us all? Why are you rotting in hillbilly hell?”_

_What did you do, Rick?_

Rick looked around his living room, dim and small in the late afternoon sun. He shrugged. “Here’s quiet. People don't bother you. I don't- it's not like I need a big city to do things, I- I can just, um, well...,” His eyes moved uncertainly, and Morty realized with exasperation that he was trying to avoid giving away anything “weird”, just in case. 

“Yeah, I know about the p-portal of green goo and- and the spaceship of trash you go careening around in, Rick. I _remember_ ,” he emphasized darkly. “No need to be c-coy about it or anything.”

“Right, so, yeah, it, uh, it doesn't really matter where I live. I-I just fly off to wherever I need to go,” Rick muttered, wiping absently at his mouth. That statement struck Morty as utterly false. The way Rick looked down at his shuffling feet, at his worn carpeted floor, said he didn't go fucking anywhere, ever. That he was stuck here by choice. The guilt practically clung to him like a cloak. This was ridiculous.

“No. That’s not- what, because it's _quiet?_ Rick, this place is a fucking tomb,” Morty said emphatically. Rick was still looking away from him, all mopey and avoidant like some kind of fucking child, and Morty felt anger begin to swell inside. He just wanted to know, he needed to know. He fucking deserved more than these games. His voice came out in a snap. 

“What did you do?”

That got Rick’s wide eyes darting back to his face. When an answer wasn't immediately forthcoming Morty continued angrily, “I _know_ you took all our memories, Rick. And, you know, the fact that you're s-serving out a self-imposed life sentence in prairie purgatory, c-combined with the fact that you’re a- you're a psycho jerk, says that the _reason_ you took all our memories is because you _did_ something.” 

By the end of it he was gritting his teeth to control himself, his heart beginning to pound again. God this was all so crazy, he had never spoken to anyone like this. Except he had, he corrected himself with a small internal spasm. He had in fact spoken to Rick like this, had even yelled and screamed at him, many, many times. 

But the Rick in his memories always fought back, said something or did something to justify himself. This one just stared, and honestly, that apparent change between past and present Rick freaked Morty out. A particularly awful thought was lurking in the back of his mind, growing louder. 

“W-was it… d-did you… was it the s-sex?” His voice cracked on each word. “Did it- d-did you..?”

Almost all his anger had chilled into dread, because, Jesus, his family was alive and intact and so was Morty and so what else _could_ Rick have done? What could have been so bad? The few memories he had of the sex all seemed pleasant, but that didn't mean anything. The important parts could be the spaces in between, after all. 

Rick took a few moments to figure out what he was asking, and then his face was almost funny with the gamut of emotions it underwent in a short amount of time. “No! F-fuck!” He gasped out convulsively, shock and horror arriving simultaneously to share first place. Then Morty saw a twinkle of anger enter his eye. 

“Jesus, Morty, did I what- fucking _rape_ you??” He thundered, advancing a step towards him. “Fuck no! _Never_. I _never_ did anything like that you- that y-you didn't want to. I mean, shit, no one’s gonna say what we- what we did was healthy b-but it was always fuckin’ consensual. Jesus _Christ_.” His hands tugged briefly at his hair, like he was beyond appalled at the very thought, then he made a visible effort to reign himself in, shook his head and looked Morty in the eye. 

“I’m not a- fuck, Morty, I-I wouldn't ever do that to you.” 

He looked so painfully earnest, desperate for Morty to believe him. And Morty did, he supposed. He fervently wanted to, anyway. But still it remained:

“You wouldn't do that. Fine. But you- you would rape my mind? Th-that was fair game for you?”

Rick rolled his eyes, but then just looked at him, seeming to deliberate over his next words. It just made Morty feel more irritated, and he sniped, “No lies, please. If- if that's even possible for you.”

The jibe seemed to loosen Rick’s tongue, his expression darkening as he growled, “Why do you think I did it, Morty? W-why did I ever do any of the crazy, desperate shit, huh?” His brow raised imperiously as he gave an aggravated sigh, and he answered himself before Morty could even think of replying, “To save your stupid ass, y-you little turd, after _you_ fucked up!”

Morty’s mouth fell open with surprise and disbelief. Rick continued his outburst, growing more energetic as if he had been waiting for ages to say the words. Perhaps he had. 

“You- you weren't exactly in great mental shape, _Morty_ , after- after- _fuck it_ \- after nearly murdering your goddamn dad, alright? You remember _that_? You- you remember why you did that? ‘Cuz it- it's pretty special, kid, real beautiful moment when he tried to kill the grandpa he found out you were _fucking_!” Rick spat the words at him like bullets with a look of agitated contempt, his eyes widening and narrowing in turn. 

“I-i-it was a goddamn debacle of a shit show, Morty, everyone was screaming, everything was broke, and you- y-you were _begging_ me to erase it.” He pointed his finger at him in accusation. 

“I don't believe that. That's a- a pack of bullshit. I- I don't believe you took everything ‘cuz I _b-begged_ you, or, or outta the goodness of your heart for a fucking second!” Morty shot back after taking a moment to get over the sheer insanity of the image Rick's words conjured in his imagination. And he didn't believe him. He remembered that terrible tumult of fear and desperation, remembered tears and shouts and swift movements, albeit hazily. The story Rick was selling was macabre and outlandish, but then again so were most of the memories Morty had received. It could have happened. 

However, he couldn't believe he had asked Rick to wipe away who he was, to leave Morty an empty fucking shell for the rest of his life. He couldn't have wanted that. And why was Rick punishing himself then? How could the greatest mind in the universe be willing to sit shelved, gathering dust for the rest of his life?

“You _did_ , Morty,” Rick insisted. “Y-you cried ‘Rick, fix it, oh god, Rick, you gotta fix this, I can't do this’”, he put on a high-pitched rendition of Morty's voice, his hands waving, “Like you always fucking did, and I fixed it. It- it took me hours, Morty, hours patching up your shit-hole dad, hours taking myself out of all your lives. ‘Cuz you fucking _asked_ me to, M-Morty.”

His voice had begun shaking slightly in the last of this, fists clenching at his sides. Morty shook his head blankly, not accepting this. He didn't want to believe the tremors rattling up and down the old man’s frame, his apparent pain. He didn't want to believe he had forced this on either of them. 

He didn't remember everything, but he remembered more than enough to know that Rick was a manipulative liar. He might have asked Rick to fix a bad situation. But there could have been another option, surely. Rick had taken a coward's way out. When shit got rough, he bolted. And it was just like him to act like it was all Morty’s fault.

“So it was all for me, huh, Rick?” He demanded. “Y-y-you left because you _cared_ , you did it to protect me, because us fucking ruined everything, o-or was ruining me, or fucking whatever? W-well tell me this, then, t-tell me why you decided to _fuck me again_ the next time you saw me?! Wh-what's your excuse for that, how did that help me?!” 

Morty's voice rose until he was yelling. The color ran out of Rick’s already ashen face, then began to bleed back into it in chaotic patches. His eyes darted around the room, chest heaving while his fingers twitched in abortive motions. It was like the man was slowly working himself into a fit. Finally he burst out,

“B-because- Fuck, why are you _here_ Morty?! What the- what the fuck, you didn't know _shit_ , M-Morty, h-how the fuck did you end up here??” 

“I told you already, m-my fucking car broke down,” Morty shot back at him with narrowed eyes. 

Rick stared at him blankly, as if expecting more. “That's _all_ , Rick. That's all there is,” he added with brittle, false amusement, raising empty hands. “So, what, you- you decided it was okay to fuck me because it was _fate_?”

He wanted to hear him say it, wanted to see Rick Sanchez admit he willingly let himself be the universe’s bitch because he missed Morty, he needed him, or maybe God forbid even loved him. That he was wrong to leave, that he had left because he was selfish and weak. 

Rick's mouth opened and closed soundlessly as he shook his head, his hands grasping at the air like he was trying to snatch the answer from it. As Morty watched him struggle and get nowhere his anger began to collapse on itself, transmuting into a sort of hopeless sympathy. God, all he wanted was answers. But it was like Rick was as incapable of giving them as Morty was of believing them.

“I…” 

Rick finally found his voice, but then seemed to give up on finding a good response. His shoulders slumped and the energy ran out of him.

“How did you find me, Morty? How- fuck, why did that happen?” His tone was quiet and resigned, and the repetition of the question was as good as an admission. 

“I don't know, Rick. I- I guess I didn't, really. I’m just a guy with a- a piece of shit car,” Morty said, now feeling a bit sorry he had pushed the point, that apparently there _was_ no point. None of this was going as satisfactorily as he had imagined while sitting and waiting for it. Rick stared at the floor, rubbing at his arm, his face twisted.

“I- you- g-gimme just a minute, Morty,” Rick mumbled distractedly, almost to himself. He began moving towards his bedroom as he pasted an emotionless look on his face, and Morty, struck with a sudden intuition of danger, demanded, 

“W-what do you mean, Rick? Why??”

Rick ignored him and continued moving, gathering speed, and Morty knew, he knew that the coward would take the easiest, cleanest way out again, and the thought of losing himself again was so thoroughly repulsive that it made his breath freeze solid in his throat, made red fill his vision and before he knew it he was leaping on top of his grandfather, tackling him to the ground. It was so easy, like knocking over a bundle of sticks. 

“What do you mean, Rick?!,” he shouted into the man's face. “Y-you mean give you a minute while you erase it and run off again?? What the fuck makes you think you have that right? I swear to God, I-I will beat your face straight into this shitty carpet before that happens. Y-y-you don't get to rape my brain and-and weasel out of my life again, Rick, fuck you!” 

Morty felt dangerously close to crying again as he clenched his hands down on his grandfather's thin shoulders, straddled on top of him. He grabbed the sorrow and harnessed it into hard determination. He wasn't a child anymore. He had never felt so fully connected to his life, his fate, neither the real life that had been taken from him nor the false, empty one he had been left with. He wouldn't go down without a fight, but goddamnit, there shouldn't _be_ a fight in the first place. Why was Rick doing this? What was the point?

He snarled in wordless frustration at the man who lay beneath him, shocked into stillness it seemed, though Morty knew it was likely he was simply calculating his next move, how best to sneak off and sweep half of Morty’s soul under the rug again. And suddenly the futility of it all sunk into him. Regardless of the miserable, lonely years between them, regardless of the absurdity of trying to tape back together a failed lie, regardless of any common sense or decency, Rick would try to erase it again because that was who Rick was. It was tragic, really. 

He understood now. His grandfather was the same as ever, and Morty was not. Rick was stagnated. In its own way, this town really was the perfect place for him. 

Morty took a deep breath, then climbed up off of his grandfather, shooting him a hard look that warned him not to try and dart off again to grab whatever bullshit he thought would neatly prevent him from having to actually deal with this. For a long while they just looked at each other warily. Morty cleared his throat. 

“I'm leaving. F-for a long while, th-then I'm coming back.”

It was a decision made on the fly. He'd deal with all this mentally, focus and sort through things and clear his mind. When he was ready, he'd come back. Things would never the same as they were, but that was ok. Hopefully enough time would have passed that Rick would calm down and be more reasonable. 

“I-I-I’ll be gone. I'll be long gone from here when- long before you'd ever come b-back,” Rick insisted in a rough voice, thin body trembling, his face a mask of desperation and fear and terrible determination. He looked like he wanted to grab at Morty, but didn't quite dare. 

“Well, I’ll just- just hope that you'll be here, then. It's your call, Rick, whether or not you want to s-see me,” Morty said exasperatedly, though perversely the words made a bit of fondness twitch in his belly. God, what a stubborn pair they were. Still were.

Morty looked at him, his grandfather, the fucked-up god, the worn, old misanthrope. He looked at Rick in one last, drinking gaze, a small smile at the edges of his mouth. In spite of everything, Morty was glad to know him again. 

“S-see ya later, Grandpa Rick,” he said softly as his smile bloomed further, and he turned and stepped through the door, shutting it to Rick’s hasty “M-Morty!”

Heart hammering, he walked quickly to his car, got in, and started it. But Rick didn't emerge, the house stayed quiet and sullen as he reversed and drove off without incident. He picked up speed while the trembling in his hands reached a crescendo, then began to ebb away. His breathing calmed and he let out a soft sigh as he turned left at the corner, watching in the rearview mirror as the little diner and inconspicuous house beside it vanished. 

He rolled the windows down as the dusty buildings slipped into his wake, ever-smaller monuments to the weary tragedy of an unchanging way of life. The further he went, the lighter he felt. The air that streamed through his window smelled crisper than it had four days ago, the sunlight arcing across the dashboard seared brighter, the line between horizon and sky looked sharper and more full of promise. 

He pressed his foot harder on the pedal and the old junker roared with camaraderie as it lurched forward. Morty grinned. Then he started to laugh as the town behind him disappeared entirely, feeling something better than peace or freedom or joy, feeling like finally, for the first time in his life, he was moving forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there it is. I'm not planning on a sequel. If there's rampant dissatisfaction with the ending then I might consider a one-shot some day. But I'm hoping that it works as is. Let me know.
> 
> It's been a grand old time, guys. Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much guys! Reviews and comments and complaints always welcome!


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